


Souvenir

by SittingInACoffeeShop



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Adult Losers Club (IT), Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Angst, Eventual Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, F/M, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gay Disaster Eddie Kaspbrak, Losers Club (IT) Friendship, M/M, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier Needs a Hug, Sad Gay Richie Tozier, TWs at the end of each chapter that needs them, background Beverly Marsh/Ben Hanscom - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:07:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26797102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SittingInACoffeeShop/pseuds/SittingInACoffeeShop
Summary: In the small town of Derry, word spread like wildfire that a thirteen-year-old boy had been arrested for brutal violence on another member of their little society.By ten o’clock the next morning, everyone and their mother had heard the news...That Richie Tozier had been arrested for “savagely murdering” Henry Bowers.orRichie is released from prison twenty years after the death of Henry Bowers.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 26
Kudos: 76





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello!
> 
> **TWs will be posted in the end notes of any chapter that needs them**
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!

“ROCK WAR!”

Those two incredibly childish words were bellowed out into the hot summer air of Derry, Maine that fateful day in 1989. They weren’t necessarily harmless, but innocently juvenile all the same.

And yet they seemed to set a circumstance that would change multiple lives forever.

What started out as merely six young teenagers simply trying to save their friend from local bullies turned into an accidental bloodbath of sorts.

Four bullies cornered one single Loser at the ford.

Six Losers came to rescue their own.

All seven Losers walked away that day, while only three of the bullies straggled off...leaving the other laying limp on the rocks, blood seeping from his temple.

Eight hours later, time creeping close to midnight, a police cruiser showed up at William Denbrough’s house with the sole purpose of taking someone into custody.

In the small town of Derry, word spread like wildfire that a thirteen-year-old boy had been arrested for brutal violence on another member of their little society.

By ten o’clock the next morning, everyone and their mother had heard the news...

That Richie Tozier had been arrested for “savagely murdering” Henry Bowers.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Eddie’s hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel of his black hatchback. He kept catching himself going fifteen over the speed limit...at times twenty. Thankfully though, he hadn’t been pulled over. The last thing he needed right now was a speeding ticket tacked onto his already reeling mental state.

Mike Hanlon had called him a few days prior, and Eddie knew what he was going to say before he even answered. He’d just had a feeling.

Eddie had answered with a tentative, “Hello?” rather than the warm greeting he usually expressed when talking with the Losers.

_“Eddie, it’s Richie...he’s coming home.”_

_“O-okay. Thanks. I-I’ll see you then.”_

He had hung up in the middle of Mike asking, “Are you okay?”

And then Eddie got black out drunk for the first time in a long, long time.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

“Incarcerated for voluntary manslaughter following involuntary...”

“History of violence...”

“Rehabilitated...”

“Rejoining society...”

Richie had to fight the smirk that threatened to form on his lips at each piece of information. Not because of what they entailed, but because of how they were used as his descriptors in accordance with the system.

Richard Bailey “Trashmouth” Tozier...a dangerous criminal, supposedly rehabilitated. He thought it was pretty damn hilarious, honestly.

The voice of Henry Bowers that popped up in his memory every now and then laughed too.

Years ago, Richie wouldn’t have been able to even picture himself in such a position. Never, in the wildest dreams of his thirteen-year-old string-bean-self, would Richie have thought that he’d lose his freedom so young...or at all really. Being sent to a juvenile detention facility in the Midwest as some stupid kid, only to come out two decades later from a prison in Nevada.

Looking at himself then, no one could have guessed. Certainly not Henry Bowers and his gang of idiots. After all, Richie served too well as a punching bag to be of any real threat.

Really, _none_ of the Loser’s Club had appeared to be of any threat to anyone at all. Except maybe Beverly...she really was a force to be reckoned with when she wanted to be.

Eddie had probably been the least scary of them all, and yet he’d had the most wicked throwing arm...as well as a wicked temper. Especially when it came to anyone messing with his friends.

Richie had no idea what Eddie was up to now or how he was doing. Richie had stopped receiving letters from him the moment he had been transferred to Nevada. He figured it was for the best though. Eddie had the potential to do amazing things. Richie didn’t want to be the one to hold him back or distract him in any way, shape, or form. So, he let go graciously.

He allowed Eddie to move on.

Everyone had moved on, really. And, if he was being bitterly honest, Richie couldn’t blame them.

Oftentimes, Richie would find himself visualizing how each of his friends’ lives had turned out while he was locked away from the world.

He imagined Beverly and Ben got married. They probably had a beautiful wedding on a beach somewhere with soft white sand. The setting sun had been kissing the horizon just as they said “I do.” Sometimes, in Richie’s envisage, they had a kid or two. Other times they were just a solo couple with two or three Yorkshire terriers.

He imagined that Bill had published a book at twenty-five and was working on a second. Though, this one would be on at least three bestseller lists.

Stanley got a super well-paying job somewhere doing...something. Whatever it was, it was probably incredibly boring. But he was successful. And he was happy.

Mike...well Richie knew what Mike was doing. He was the new library director in Derry. Richie still envisioned him leaving that small, shitty ass town one day though. Moving to Florida and being a museum curator or something.

Eddie...

Eddie’s path was a painful one to imagine.

Richie pictured Eddie living somewhere in the mountains, like in North Carolina or Colorado. He would be working as a pharmacist or something health-related, but he wouldn’t be as high-strung about it after finally escaping from under his mother’s conniving thumb.

He’d be married to some lucky bastard. Three or four of the healthiest and _cleanest_ kids known to man running around and playing in their big beautiful backyard underneath a weeping willow.

Eddie would have almost completely forgotten about Richie, who would only be remembered as that bespectacled kid that hung around and clung to him like he was the most precious gem stone the Earth had ever created.

And he would be happy.

All six of his best friends would be incredibly, insuperably happy.

Meanwhile, Richie remained locked away, trying to be accepting of the fact that he had missed all of it.

He missed all of their accomplishments, their growth...everything. The very thought made Richie’s heart feel as though it were being painfully constricted by thick, thorny vines.

And yet, in spite of it all, Richie couldn’t find it in him to regret anything.

Taking claim that he was indeed the one that had incited the Rock War of 1989? No regrets there.

Throwing rocks at Henry Bowers and his gang? No regrets there either. They would have certainly killed either himself or his friends one day.

Not denying the words he had crowed to Henry Bowers’ unmoving form, accompanying by his shooting middle fingers? Not a chance.

Not that he didn’t wish Henry Bowers had survived the whole ordeal. After all, if he had suffered just a concussion or something Richie would be out living a normal life with everyone else right now.

Fighting back against his tormenters though? Absolutely no regrets.

Richie would never forget the satisfying, exhilarating feeling that surged through him as he hurled each rock at his aggressors. So much anger had built up over the time being victim to the mental and physical abuse of the older boys...each rock was like payback for each punch, kick, ridicule, and slur that assaulted each and every one of the Losers.

It had felt great...and Richie refused to let go of that.

There was no room for regrets. Nor was there any energy. He did what he did, and that was that.

“Mister Tozier.”

Richie snapped out of his thoughts and looked up at the panel of suits staring right at him. Their gazes were hard and layered with the utmost importance.

Right, this was supposed to be when he laid it on real thick...that yes, he _was_ a changed man. And yes, he _was_ oh so sorry for his past actions that led him to where he was now. That yes, he _was ready_ to rejoin society as a free-

“Mister Tozier,” the woman with half-moon glasses stated seriously again, eyes shooting daggers through the lenses and straight into him.

He couldn’t feel them though.

He couldn’t feel anything, really.

“I’m sorry what?” Richie responded lamely.

“Do you feel you’re ready to rejoin society?”

Richie swallowed dryly, Adam’s apple bobbing dramatically with the action.

“Yes,” he answered. “Yes I’m ready.”

And that was the truth.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Mike had been waiting outside the prison walls for close to an hour. There was practically no reprieve from the sweltering summer heat, the slight passing breeze feeling like just another burst of hot air.

He had walked a fair distance of the steel fencing at least a dozen times already, each time sparing a few glances up at the barbed rings that wreathed the top edge.

It was such an odd thing...that a place like this had been holding such a dear friend of his...

Holding _Richie Tozier_ no less.

He and his friends had always spoke about how they predicted _Henry Bowers_ would be the one locked away...his lackies would either be right behind him or slip off into more respectable societal roles...what, with their leader gone and all.

And slip off they did. As far as Mike knew, Belch Huggins was a bartender at some dark, greasy joint right outside of Derry. Victor Criss was married and had a couple of kids. He was the manager at some sporting goods store. Patrick Hockstetter was busy being an absent father to two children as well as being buried under the debt of four public intoxication and DUI charges.

Mike used the shirttail of his cream-colored polo to wipe the sweat from his face. He heard the crinkling of his empty water bottle in his back pocket, and he desperately wished he had brought more than just a mere twelve-ounces with him.

He and Bill had joked a little lamely with each other that, of course Richie decided to be released during one of the hottest months in Nevada. However, it was just a way to ease the uneasiness they felt.

They were ecstatic that Richie was finally going to be able to join the free world again. _Of course_ they were excited about that. A lingering thought nagged at the back of their minds though...that the Richie that would be coming out would not be the same Richie that went in.

How could he be? No one stayed the same after two decades, incarcerated or not.

Though, standing outside the menacing prison walls that had served as his friend’s home for years, Mike suddenly felt rather nervous and a little regretful that he had rejected Bill’s offer to join him. Mike had felt that it would be a little overwhelming for Richie after being locked away for so long. Not to mention Mike still felt greatly responsible for Richie’s current situation, so he felt that he needed to be the one to pick him up upon release. After all, if Mike hadn’t gotten caught by Henry Bowers and his gang, the whole Rock War of 1989 would have never happened.

Mike sighed and anxiously looked at the time on his cellphone. He shuffled a bit on his feet, kicking up some of the loose rock that lay underneath his shoes.

Mike was a very patient person by nature. But this was getting ridiculous.

What the hell could _possibly_ be taking so damn long-

His head sprang up as he heard a metallic clanging and creaking from beyond the fences. He squinted and held his hand up to try and block the sun from his vision. He could make out three figures past the wobbly heat haze, but no defining details. It wasn’t until the three figures were halfway down the road that Mike saw it was...

Was that Richie?

It had to be.

Of course, it was hard to tell. He hadn’t actually seen Richie in years.

In the past, Mike had been able to visit Richie via road trip with other members of the Losers Club to the juvenile detention center in Pennsylvania, and then to the penitentiary in Virginia.

The penitentiary was supposed to be Richie’s last stop before being released at twenty-two years old.

But that never happened.

Mike would never forget the day he found out that Richie was in fact _not_ coming home. Instead, he was being transferred to a higher security prison out West. No one knew why or what happened. But it devastated the Loser’s Club as a whole.

Ben and Beverly were extremely sad and confused. They couldn’t seem to figure out why the hell Richie would act up so close to being released back out into the free world.

Stanley was furious. As soon as Richie was plopped into the Nevada prison, he placed a call and spoke to Richie over the phone. Yet, he refused to travel the distance to see a friend that “didn’t even care whether he got in or out.”

Bill was about equally as angry. Though, he had travelled the distance once to visit and speak to Richie through the heavy layer of plexiglass. When he returned to Derry, he didn’t emerge from his apartment for days. No one knew what Richie had said to him to make him behave in such a way.

And Eddie...

Eddie was absolutely heartbroken. He reacted worse than the day Richie was initially sent away at thirteen.

The three figures approached the high chain link double gates and Mike’s breath hitched in his throat.

Because it _was_ Richie.

This was _Richie._

All six-foot-one of him clad in gray sweatpants, a black cotton t-shirt, and cheap, navy boat shoes.

Mike flinched inwardly at the whole attire. They couldn’t have provided him with shorts and a lighter-colored t-shirt? It was absolutely sweltering outside. Mike could practically feel the sweat that was undoubtedly dripping down Richie’s skin behind the cheap clothing.

Richie had been looking at the ground the entire time, but upon lifting his head and seeing Mike, his blue eyes widened a significant amount. Mike was sure he visibly saw Richie’s mouth go dry.

Then Mike felt a lump of emotion swell in his throat.

Because, finally, Richie was being emancipated.

Finally, he was being given back to them.

A thirty three-year-old Richie with lines and slight circles under his eyes signifying his age and overall weariness...but Mike could see it. He could see the thirteen-year-old he hugged tightly all those years ago as they said their goodbyes.

He was still there.

Neither of them said anything as the guards bid their grumbling farewells.

Richie finally spared a slow, small, and seemingly disbelieving smile. Almost as though he were surprised anyone was even there to pick him up at all...let alone one of the Losers.

Which was so stupid. Because _of course_ someone was going to come.

There may still be confusion, anger, and heartbreak...but Richie was still one of them. He was still their Trashmouth.

He was still their Richie.

Richie opened his mouth to say something, but Mike lunged forward and wrapped him in his arms.

The sweat collecting under Richie’s clothes was already starting to soak through the fabric, but Mike didn’t care one bit.

He also didn’t care if anyone behind the fences saw them embracing like this. His Loser’s Club...his family...was finally going to be whole again. He had waited so long for this, so he was going to literally and figuratively embrace it, damn it.

Richie had flinched sharply at first, but he was slowly and hesitantly bringing his arms up.

He robotically placed his hands on his taller friend’s back as though he had never experienced an embrace before. As though he no longer knew what to do.

A couple of tears dripped down Mike’s face as he croaked out, “I missed ya, Rich. We all did. So, _so_ much.”

Richie fully fell into the embrace then and squeezed back as much as he could muster, squeezing his eyes shut against his own tears that threatened to push past his eyelids.

Richie wanted to savor this moment. He wanted to brand it in his memory for all of time.

He wanted to remember the way it felt to finally experience the comforting embrace of another again.

Because he hadn’t felt it in twenty years.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Eddie always found it odd, how something could trigger certain memories long since passed. Especially when such memories would pop up at the most random and, occasionally, inopportune times.

For instance, during his high school graduation ceremony, he had suddenly recalled a time in third grade when he fearfully identified rust on the spokes of his bike. It was littered along the front wheel, having been hiding behind a couple of playing cards and orange reflectors, deciding to emerge almost overnight. He could remember being so stressed about it, thinking about all kinds of ridiculous and dangerous possibilities like the thin steel snapping in two all at once and somehow sending him flying onto the harsh gravel.

Another instance, he was in the middle of an important job interview when he had found himself randomly reminiscing about a time in fifth grade he was home sick from school. His fretting, overbearing mother had made him some soup with alphabet letters in it. Before even taking the first bite, he saw two B’s and two O’s lined up in perfect formation of a word that would have any ten-year-old rolling. His mother saw what he was laughing at, went pale in distress, and yanked the soup out of his hands and began frantically stirring the contents; all the while emphasizing “That is _not_ funny!” and “That is _not_ a word good little boys repeat, Eddie Bear!” with a sprinkle of “This is why I don’t want you hanging out with those troublemakers you call _friends!”_

And then at twenty-six-years-old, he was in the middle of a wedding ceremony...his _own_ wedding ceremony to be exact...when he remembered a time he was thirteen and a pair of hands passed him a large stone of sorts. It was rough and a little mediocre in appearance until further observation revealed shiny, crystalized protrusions leading to a beautiful, smooth aquamarine area. The color had stayed in his mind for years. It never left.

It would lie dormant in his brain for some time...but it never left.

Any time he saw that color, he would recall the face of a long-lost friend, and the way his face lit up behind thick, goofy glasses when presenting the treasure he had found. How fast he talked when explaining what kind of mineral it was and how rare it was that he had found it “in a dump like Derry!”

Eddie had been so lost in the memory he missed his cue to say “I Eddie Kaspbrak, take thee Myra...”

Eddie's face had gone red and hot with embarrassment when he noticed the minister staring expectantly at him. He’d had to stammer out an apology and “C-could you repeat that please?”

He still felt bad about it to this very day, recalling the confused and slightly hurt expression on Myra’s face when she realized he had so very clearly zoned out in the _middle of their damn wedding ceremony._

Eddie’s grip tightened on the wheel and turned up the volume on the radio. He allowed the voice of Vincent Neil to chase the memories away.

_Tonight, tonight_

_I'm on my way_

_I'm on my way_

_Home sweet home_

Eddie was allowed about a minute of peace before he found himself driving up on a familiar green sign. His headlights lit up the flaxen letters that seemed to shout at him and cause echoes in his brain of both good and bad memories alike...

Welcome to Derry

Population 4,831

Eddie sighed heavily. He couldn’t believe he was back. It had been years.

The only upside was that he would be able to see his friends again. Friends he still held very dear in his heart, even during the years he spent getting distracted by ludicrous credence in who he was and by false dreams.

They were still his friends. Still his family.

Though, that thought didn’t help with the thudding in his heart as that one familiar face in particular appeared in his mind again.

Eddie sped a little too fast past the sign welcoming him into Derry.

_Home sweet home._

**  
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**.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to talk to me:
> 
> [Tumblr](https://itjammy.tumblr.com)  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/softplaidpjs) 🔞


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello. Welcome back!
> 
> **TWs in end notes**

There was a heavy silence as Mike drove away from the prison. Richie’s eyes remained locked on the reflection in the sideview mirror. It was as though he wanted to watch the structure as it disappeared into the distance.

Watch it disappear far, far behind him.

They had spoken very few words, because oddly enough, there didn’t seem to be much to talk about. What was Mike supposed to ask, anyway?

‘What have you been up to, Rich?’

Mike knew what he had been up to.

‘Any plans for the holidays?’

Not spending them in prison for once.

‘How’ve you been?’

That...actually sounded like a good one.

“So how’ve you been, Rich?”

The corner of Richie’s mouth quirked up a bit, his eyes still on the large, evanescing building.

“Can’t complain, Mikey,” he responded after a few seconds. “How could I? Knowing I’m finally able to get out and grace the world with my presence again.”

Mike smiled at the fair glimpse of classic Richie coming through. He hoped he would be able to see even more of it soon.

The question still lingered, though...and Mike wanted so desperately to ask...

Then why the hell did you halt your bail eight years ago? _Why?_

He refrained though. That was a question for a different time. Sometime when Richie wasn’t so freshly back out into the world.

Mike had glanced over at his friend about a million times, but he just couldn’t help it. He couldn’t stop looking at him because it just felt so surreal that he was actually there in the flesh.

Richie was a lot taller than Mike ever expected him to be. His shoulders were strong and broad, though not in the sense that he did much working out. More like, he was just built that way.

His hair was cut short, which seemed to give him a more momentous presence.

Richie hadn’t seemed to notice Mike persistent glances. He fiddled with the window switch for a couple of minutes before deciding to press it down and allow the fresh air to flow into the car.

Even though it was hot outside and the window being down was allowing the air conditioning to fly right out, Mike couldn’t bring himself to ask Richie to roll it back up.

He was like a dog enjoying a car ride for the first time. The air was rushing into his face and ruffling his short hair. He tentatively brought his hand up and out through the open window, allowing it to get tossed back slightly by the force of the wind.

And he began smiling.

Richie was smiling at something so simple, and Mike couldn’t take that away from him. He wouldn’t dare.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

“You sure you don’t want to wait for a day or two?” Mike asked as he parked in the rental car lot. “We can book a hotel room for a couple nights. See sights, take...take a breath. Whatever you want.”

Richie’s face did a strange sort of flinch. He felt a slight irritation at Mike’s coddling.

Richie didn’t need to be treated with kid gloves. He wasn’t some patient being checked out of the hospital. He was an ex-convict.

Richie heard Henry Bowers cackle obnoxiously in his head at that.

“Rich?” Mike asked gently.

“Sorry, uh, no. No, that’s not...no. I'm fine,” Richie shook his head a bit, hoping it would knock Bowers from his brain, through his ear canal, and out of his mind for good.

It never did.

“You sure?” Mike asked.

Richie nodded, “Yeah, Mikey. I just want to get out of here. I just want to...I just want to get home.”

Home.

The word felt so alien on his tongue now.

Mike looked at him for a solid two seconds as though giving Richie a chance to change his mind.

“Alright, fair enough,” he said, opening the door and getting out.

Richie did the same, eager to be able to stretch his legs and walk around.

Mike pulled a small suitcase out of the trunk as Richie pulled out his own black duffel bag the prison had provided him. He flung it over his shoulder.

“I’m going to return the keys. Would you mind...” Mike pulled out his cell phone and handed it to him.

Richie studied the sleek device.

Weren’t cell phones supposed to have a bunch of numbers and shit? This thing only had one button.

He pressed the round button on the front - because that was the only one he could see – and the screen lit up. Oh, _there_ were the numbers.

“Five, five, five, five,” Mike said, backing toward the building.

“What?”

“My password. It's just four fives. Easier to remember,” Mike smiled warmly at him. “Could you go ahead and order us an Uber? We have to catch a ride to the airport, unfortunately. Sorry.”

“No, uh, yeah. No problem,” Richie said in a sort of puzzled way.

Mike’s smile stayed on his face as he turned and continued inside. Richie was left standing awkwardly in the parking lot like some kind of idiot, holding Mike’s cell phone like it was about to explode in his hand at any given second.

“Uber?” Richie mumbled to himself, looking down at the mobile phone before glancing around for something else that might help him.

What the fuck was an Uber?

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Eddie had been standing outside his childhood home for a solid five minutes. He needed the time to prepare himself. 

It wasn’t like there were absolutely _no_ good memories in there. There were. It’s just that a lot of the bad ones were fierce competitors with the good. Why else would he have spent most of his teenage years sneaking out of his bedroom window? His mother had been completely insane. She had loved him, sure. But she was fucking insane.

Eddie let out a quick breath in preparation and reached for his suitcases.

Now or never, he supposed.

Bill had said he was more than welcome to stay at his house...that he didn’t _have_ to stay at the home of his overbearing, now deceased, mother.

_“Richie’s going to be staying here,” Bill offered, as though it would be a problem if it were_ _just he and Eddie anyway._

_“That’s exactly why I can’t, Bill.”_

Eddie had tried to ignore the look of hurt that passed over Bill’s face. He knew that Bill just wanted all of his Losers together again. But things weren’t that simple. Eddie’s _feelings_ over what Richie had _done_ weren’t that simple. And he wasn’t about to pretend that they were.

The paint on the house was peeling in various places, and the floorboards on the porch were creakier than he remembered. But it was still in good condition. Of course it was. Eddie paid Bill for upkeep of the place.

Eddie fumbled with the keys a bit before unlocking the front door and slowly opening it.

The air smelled like old book pages and mothballs. And he could swear there was still the faint odor of bleach from his mother’s incessant cleaning.

The chair where his mother would plant herself was still there. An ugly red, white, and green square-stitch crochet blanket was draped over the back. An indent permanently recessed the cushion from where she would sit for hours on end, either terrifying herself with the news or watching and judging soap operas.

Everything was the same. Only...dirtier.

Shit, if his mother were still alive she would be having a complete meltdown over the sheer amount of dust on every single surface. After all, Eddie only paid Bill to upkeep the outside, not the inside. There was no telling how long it had been since someone had set foot in this house.

Eddie took a couple of steps further into the house and shut the door behind him.

It was quiet.

“Home sweet home,” he murmured to himself.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

They barely made their flight after having to quite literally sprint for their gate due to Richie completely failing to schedule a ride. Mike had clearly been stressed out over this, but also kicked himself over his own irresponsibility. _Of course_ Richie wouldn’t know how to schedule a ride. When he had been thrown into custody at thirteen years of age, he had never even _held_ a cell phone. It had been the end of the 1980s. Cell phones weren’t a regular handheld device yet.

But, thankfully, they had made their flight with only a minute to spare. And seven hours later they were sitting in Mike’s van, staring out the windows at Bill’s cozy little two-story 18th century home.

“Very fitting for a writer, isn’t it?” Richie questioned, taking in every little cozy aspect.

“Yeah, pretty much. Ready?”

“Mhm,” Richie murmured.

As though on cue, Bill stepped out of the house as soon as they slammed their car doors shut.

“Rich...” Bill said tearfully, the wetness forming in his eyes so quickly that it was already threatening to spill over onto his cheeks.

Richie smiled and let out a breathless laugh, almost in a sort of disbelief that he was actually there. That he was actually standing there in the flesh, and this wasn’t some sort of dream.

He’d had many dreams over the past twenty years that he was back home. Back with his friends. And, every time, he would wake up heartbroken and disappointed.

Richie did his best to compose himself and rid his voice of any kind of emotion that wasn’t something purely and solely smart-ass.

“Billy Boy, is that you?” he smiled with surprisingly white teeth.

The top two teeth were still a little crooked, just as they had been when he was a kid. It used to promise braces in his future, but they turned out fine.

Bill wasn’t sure what he was expecting... brown teeth falling out of gingivitis-infected gums? They were allowed to brush their teeth for fuck’s sake.

What _had_ he been expecting though, really? For the same thirteen-year-old to hop out of the car spouting Your Mom jokes? For him to be clad in a colorfully bright Hawaiian shirt and an obnoxious graphic t-shirt?

Though, one thing that did surprise Bill was his lack of glasses. He obviously had acquired contact lenses at some point somehow.

All in all, though, Richie looked good. He looked like Richie. A little scruffy and tired but...still Richie.

“So, are we gonna hug or are you just going to keep staring at me?”

Bill laughed wetly and quickly walked forward. He threw his arms around Richie and hugged him _hard._

Oddly enough, Richie said nothing else for an entire minute as they just stood there and embraced in Bill’s front yard.

It was somewhere in that time that Bill noticed that Richie was _tall._ He wasn’t reaching Mike’s six-foot-four but still...how had he gotten so damn tall?

Bill sniffed noisily against Richie’s shoulder.

Richie hugged back even tighter and fought back his own tears, keeping his eyes squeezed shut and gulping down the lump in his throat that kept rising over and over again; it threatened to spill out all of his emotions right then and there.

He wasn’t going to allow that to happen, though. Not yet. Not until he knew that this was all for real.

Richie sniffed back his emotions and blinked rapidly, “Fuck, Bill, you haven’t grown a single damn inch since the eighth grade.”

Bill gave a muffled laugh against his shoulder, “Shut the fuck up, man.”

“Seriously, weren’t you the tallest out of the seven of us? Now you’re like,” Richie freed a hand and brought his thumb and index finger together while making a noise that sounded like a small trumpet.

Bill shoved him away at that, laughing and wiping at his eyes.

“So you gonna help me with my luggage or what?”

Bill looked confused for a moment before realization fell on his features.

Richie only had one damn bag because...well... 

“Shut the fuck up, man,” Bill repeated.

Richie smiled goofily at him.

  
Yep, same old Richie.

Kind of.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Bill guided Richie to the guest bedroom.

It was a cozy little room that held a wood-framed double bed. There was a single large window that shed the most glorious sunlight Richie had ever seen. It was the first thing he was drawn to upon walking into the room.

He tossed his duffel bag onto the bed and made his way over, the old floorboards creaking with every step. He spread apart the cream lace curtains to allow even more light into the room. And he smiled as soon as the warmth hit his face.

Bill watched with a sad sort of satisfaction. It felt good that something was making Richie so happy, but damn if it didn’t hurt...that something so simple brought such a smile to his face.  
  
Bill cleared his throat, fighting more tears from barging their way through.

“These drawers are empty so you can put whatever you need...” he gestured to the heavy, dark stained dresser drawers.

Richie brought his eyes away from the window to look at him, “You’re kidding right?”

It was a shot at humor, although very dry. And it made Bill ache a bit.

“I-I’m sorry...I forgot you probably don’t-”

Richie clapped a reassuring hand on Bill’s shoulder, “Relax, Big Bill, I’m just fucking with you.”

Bill gave a half-hearted smile, “Right. Well...maybe tomorrow we can, uh...hit the town so you can get some new clothes or something,” Bill offered, feeling weirdly awkward all of a sudden.

“You mean you don’t like the stylish clothes they gave me? I’m offended,” Richie said, walking over to the bed. “It’s not a big deal, Billy Boy. You don’t have to make any...special trips or accommodations for me or whatever. I still remember where Went kept his stack of cash. I can just walk into town and buy some cheap shit.”

Bill inwardly flinched at the mention of Richie’s dad.

Went had died when Richie was twenty-seven. Therefore, before he was released.

He had never been able to see him again as a free man.

Bill tried to lighten the mood with a joke, “Walk? I mean, I know you’re excited to be out and walking around but...you can use my car you kn-” 

Richie looked up at him, face unreadable. 

Bill bit his tongue.

Shit. That was supposed to be a joke. _A joke._

“S-sorry.”

Richie laughed though, albeit with a hint of hurt lacing his features. “Don’t sweat it.”

Bill shuffled on his feet as Richie continued, “Sorry to say...when you said I could stay here for as long as I needed...that basically meant you were adopting a thirteen-year-old in a thirty-year-old's body.”

Another joke.

Another joke that made Bill feel so very regretful and sad.

“So, uh...” Bill tried relieving the awkwardness from the room as Richie opened his bag and removed what little contents he owned. “Y-you mentioned...stopping by your house?”

“Mm,” Richie noised, placing a cheap, uncovered toothbrush on the bed along with a used bar of Irish Spring soap.

Gross. Why did he feel the need to keep that?

Bill wasn’t about to ask.

“Where’s Maggie? Surely you’re excited to see her.”

“Oh yeah, I’m excited to see Mama again,” Richie grinned. “But I didn’t tell her I was being released yet. I told her my date was pushed back.”

“Why?”

“She’s on some...tropical two-month vacation somewhere,” Richie answered unhelpfully and dismissively.

Bill looked confused, his expression urging Richie to explain further, “And...” 

Richie placed a contact case and an old, scratched pair of thick-rimmed glasses on the bed. He looked up at Bill, “Didn’t want to ruin it for her _and_ I didn’t want to deal with all of...that...just yet.”

Bill wasn’t quite sure what ‘all of that’ was supposed to mean, but if he were to guess, it was the inevitable conversation about Wentworth and his death.

He supposed he couldn’t blame Richie for that. After all, he still had trouble talking about Georgie. Though, their situations were vastly different.

“Fair enough,” Bill replied. “You hungry?”

“Yes,” Richie said a little too eagerly.

Bill smiled.

  
Bill made quick work of grilling some egg, ham, and Swiss cheese sandwiches.

By the time he had come back upstairs with the food, Richie’s duffel bag was nowhere to be found and all of his dismal belongings were stashed away. And not too long later, they were sitting on the guest bed, chatting it up like they used to when they were kids.

“Oh my _fuck,_ Big Bill,” Richie moaned around a bite of the sandwich. “This is the best fucking thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.”

Bill laughed, crunching a large potato chip in half. Plain potato chips had always been Richie’s favorite, especially the ones that were folded over. Bill had even gone so far as to move every folded-over chip from his own plate over to Richie’s. It seemed stupid, but it was one of the few things he knew would make Richie happy. It was the least he could do after...well, everything.

“It’s just a grilled cheese.”

“No, no, Bill. You don’t understand,” Richie said after taking another monstrous bite. “After eating tasteless shit slop for-fucking-ever? This tastes like a damn five-star restaurant.”

Bill chuckled.

It was actually pretty astonishing how quickly Richie devoured the sandwich, and Bill was tempted to ask if he wanted another. Instead though, another question was nagging at his mind. A question he couldn’t help but blurt out.

“How was it, Rich?” he asked quietly.

“Hm?” Richie asked distractedly, happily munching on one of Bill’s hand-selected folded-over chips.

“E-everything. H-how was it?”

Richie paused in his chewing, thought for a moment, then swallowed.

“You mean...you mean the sandwich? It was great, man. Couldn't you hear my pleasurable moans? It was like the best sex ever, only in my mouth.”

“Rich...”

Richie sighed defeatedly.

“I don’t know. It was shit, I guess,” Richie shrugged.

“But like...it wasn’t- was it better than...you know...”

Richie sighed again, then cleared his throat. His neck flexed a bit as he clicked his jaw around.

Bill suddenly felt nervous...and he _hated it._ It didn’t feel right to be nervous around Richie. But at that moment he couldn’t help it. He was alone in a room with one of his best friends who had only _just_ been released from an almost double-decade incarceration. They used to be able to tell each other anything and everything. They were like brothers. And, in many ways, this was still the Richie he knew.

The Richie who was one of his best friends.

The Richie he had been forced to say goodbye to all those years ago. A dear friend taken from him at only thirteen-years-old.

Richie was now occupying himself by wiggling food out from between his molars. It was clear he wasn’t going to answer.

“Sorry, I...you just got here,” Bill said, shaking his head. “There will be plenty of time to...to catch up later on all that.”

Richie sniffed a bit and looked down at the ivory comforter. Anywhere was better than looking at Bill.

Bill wished he hadn’t said anything. He wanted to go back to when they were chatting and laughing. But he just _had_ to be overly curious and cross a line.

“I’m sorry, Rich-”

Suddenly, Richie swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. He moved his plate over to the bedside table, then made his way over to the dresser drawers.

Bill stared after him curiously.

Richie removed the black duffel bag from a drawer and walked back over to the bed.

He unzipped it and proceeded to spill all of the contents onto the bed. Bill had to quickly move his plate so it wouldn’t get all over his sandwich and chips.

“Wh-” he started, staring at the bed, which now looked as though an Office Depot had thrown up all over it.

Notepads.

So many notepads. There were _at_ _least_ forty piled on the bed.

They were littered with Richie’s scribble. Some had rather large handwriting, which was exactly how Bill recalled his friend’s scrawl back in school. Though, a lot of them shifted to handwriting that was quite small and neat.

He was trying his best to not read any of the scrawl, keeping his nosiness at bay for once. These were obviously important enough for Richie to keep and he didn’t want to invade.

“This...this is what you had packed?”

Richie shrugged, “All I have to my name, Billy Boy.”

“So what exactly...I mean, what are all of these?” Bill asked tentatively so as not to overstep any boundaries again.

He slowly touched one of the notepads.

Richie tensed as he saw Bill’s fingertips touch the paper. 

“My journals,” Richie answered finally, sounding as though he were forcing the words out of his mouth.

“Your-” Bill looked up at him.

Richie nodded curtly.

Bill’s gaze shifted back down to the notepads.

“All of these?” he asked incredulously. “Son of a bitch, Rich!”

Richie smirked at the rhyme, “Bitchie Richie. That’s me.”

“What, did you write every damn day or something?”

It wasn’t a serious question. Not really.

And yet, Richie nodded, “Every damn day.”

“Shit,” Bill breathed, fingers sliding across the paper as though to clarify that they were actually there.

Richie fiddled a bit with the hem of his shirt, feeling super awkward at the fact that Bill was actually perceiving his...well...his _life._

He took in a shaky breath before blurting, “You can read them.”

Bill had still been looking at the notepads, a mix of awe and something else unreadable in his expression. Was it disturbed? Sad? Uncomfortable? When Richie said those words, though, his head whipped up.

“Wh-what?”

“You can...you can read them if you want to,” Richie repeated, more firm in his tone.

“Oh, Rich, I-I don’t want to intrude or-”

“No, I...I want you to.”

“Y-you want me to? Why?”

“Sorry, you don’t have to,” Richie said, becoming suddenly breezy. “It was just a thought. Just a...y’know...you asked me about, like...”

He took a deep breath, realizing he was starting to ramble. But Bill was just...he was just fucking _staring_ at him. Like he was some kind of weird stranger who had just crawled through the window completely uninvited.

“You’ve asked me about...stuff, and I just...these are it,” Richie gulped and his jaw flexed. “The answers are here. That's my...that’s my life.”

They stood in a loaded silence.

Bill looked down at the notepads once more. His fingers found them again, brushing against the scrawled lettering.

Richie’s life.

 _This was Richie’s life._ Right under his fingertips.

A flurrying was building in Bill’s belly, and it worked its way into his voice as he said, “Okay, Rich. Okay.”

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.  
**

  
It was around six o’clock when Mike called, saying he was leaving work and asking what he should pick up for dinner. When Bill called out to Richie, the man had run into the room and loudly declared, “PIZZA. Please can we do fucking pizza, Bill? I’ve been craving it for _twenty_ _fucking years.”_

Bill laughed, because Richie sounded like a kid asking his mom for candy in the grocery store check-out line.

Mike entered the house with two boxes of piping hot double-cheese pizzas just as Bill was slipping a tape into the VHS player. He had selected _The Goonies,_ which was an old favorite of theirs. They had gone to see it three separate times when it was released into theaters.

Richie was strangely happy that it was a VHS tape, seeming to already be exhausted by all of the technical advances around him that he had missed out on while locked away. He knew he would have to get used to it eventually, but frankly, the very thought gave him a headache.

Mike, Bill, and Richie sat on the couch and started the movie.

“No offense, Bill, but this may beat your sandwiches,” Richie said after taking his first bite of pizza in twenty years. His eyes closed and his face smoothed out like he was experiencing the sweetest dream of his life.

”No offense taken,” Bill grinned.

“Should we leave you and the pizza alone?” Mike joked.

“Maybe. I’m about to nut right here on this couch,” Richie said before taking another large bite of the greasy slice.

Bill almost choked on his own bite of pizza, but it quickly slipped into laughter.

He had missed Richie’s crude jokes. He had missed _this._

The only thing that would have made the moment even better was if Eddie were there with them. He had neglected telling Richie that Eddie was actually in town.

And he was a little surprised that Richie had yet to ask about him...or any of the others, really.

Within fifteen minutes Richie had eaten five slices of pizza, displaying absolutely no shame as he moaned in bliss with every other bite. An hour later, he had started to doze off. It was clear he was trying to stay awake to watch his favorite part, which was when Sloth tore the chest of his shirt to reveal a Superman t-shirt underneath. He ultimately lost the battle though, finally falling fast asleep with his head tipped to the side and his mouth slightly open.

Mike was asleep as well. The traveling of the previous two days undoubtedly tiring him out.

Bill continued watching the movie for a few more minutes before standing up and tossing a couple of thin, old blankets onto his friend’s laps. He then made his way to the office.

He lit a lavender-scented soy candle and pulled the string on the desk lamp before sitting down and pulling Richie’s duffel bag onto his lap.

He was grateful that Richie had labeled each journal entry with a date, because otherwise it would have been a lot more difficult to put them all in chronological order. Bill was still amazed that _Richie_ had even written all of these...let alone labeled them by date. Hell, this was the same guy who would scoff at Bill and call him a nerd for actually enjoying English homework as a kid.

After organizing, Bill just sat there in wait. He stared at the stacks before him, trying to muster up the courage to begin.

And they looked ominously back at him.

He was nervous to start; to even flip through the pages...as if his fingers could potentially ignite the paper and send the whole work up in flames.

This was someone’s _life._

 _Richie’s_ life, no less.

And Bill was afraid to even touch...to leave so much as a fingerprint trace on any of the pages. He had even scrubbed his hands for five whole minutes just to ensure any and all filth was cleaned from his hands.

Bill took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

When Richie was sent away, it had hurt him deep in his heart. It had hurt all of them. It had been like a wound that refused to heal.

Bill, however, had felt a personal sense of failure over the whole thing. There had been nothing he could do to save Richie from the sentence. Nothing he could do to help. It didn’t matter how many hours he had spent thinking and wracking his brain for some sort of resolve.

Bill always strived to help and to protect his friends, but that time he couldn’t.

He had failed...and it still hurt.

And maybe, if he was being _really_ honest with himself, that was the main reason he didn’t want to read Richie’s journals.

He was afraid of what he might learn. Afraid of how else he had failed. Afraid of...everything that had happened over the past twenty years.

It scared him.

 _Never_ had Bill been so afraid of something as simple as words on paper.

A creak from the hallway floorboards caused his eyes to fly open. He quickly turned his head, but saw no one.

Bill turned back around and stared at the notepads for a few more seconds before swiftly grabbing the first one, as though if he stalled any longer he wouldn’t be able to read them at all.

“October fifteenth...1989,” Bill quietly read out loud.

Another creak sounded from the hallway, as though someone were moving closer in order to hear better.

Bill turned again, and he was sure he saw someone right outside the door for the briefest moment.

He wondered if it was Richie. He wondered if perhaps he wanted to hear it all again, wanted to hear it all read back to him...the things he couldn’t bring himself to speak.

Then again, there could be no one there at all.

Bill cleared his throat.

Typically, he hated reading aloud. School ruined that for him. The teachers would call on him to read to the class despite _knowing_ about his struggle. On top of that, he’d also have to deal with the sighs of exasperation from other students as well as the hushed teasing and mimicking.

But now? Reading aloud just felt right.

“October fifteenth, 1989...”

Bill’s face went through a plethora of emotions that night as Richie continued to snooze on the living room couch. The movie had long since ended, sending the house into a peaceful quiet.

And Mike continued to sit on the hardwood floor right outside the office, listening as Richie’s words left Bill’s mouth.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for mention of parent death
> 
> Feel free to talk to me:
> 
> [Tumblr](https://itjammy.tumblr.com)  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/softplaidpjs) 🔞


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW IT'S BEEN A WHILE.  
> Sorry I took so long to update this! I got distracted with the October and December Prompt Lists. 
> 
> Hope this chapter is worth the wait!
> 
> Also I made a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6iYvuEbLRhpAVLqPgozAD7?si=Cgj_q5VsRvKtDlXZo7krKg)  
> for this story
> 
> **TWs in end notes**

_It was Richie’s first night in the juvenile detention facility._

_A guard had led him to the joint room that he’d be staying in with one other boy. The guard had said a gruff and sarcastic “Sleep tight” before locking him in._

_Richie was okay for a full minute._

_He looked around the small, dark room. It looked like the dankest, shittiest dorm room to ever be constructed. His roommate was sleeping soundly in the bunk. Or, at least, pretending to. No doubt uninterested in introducing himself to the “new meat” as a couple of the bigger, older boys had so preciously called him in passing._

_Then the minute passed...a_ _nd the walls began closing in and his current situation really settled._

_Then he was suffocating._

_He couldn’t breathe._

_He couldn’t_ breathe.

_Shit._

_He_ _wanted_ _his mom. He wanted his friends. He wanted Eddie._

_But he couldn’t have them. He was alone. More alone than he had ever felt in his entire life._

_Suffocating and unbearably alone._

_He couldn’t take it._

_He felt like he was going to throw up or pass out. Or throw up and_ then _pass out._

_He needed an adult. Because oh so suddenly he was feeling like a little boy again. He felt like a homesick little kid at his first sleepover._

_In the midst of his panic, Richie slammed his hands on the closed door. He banged his palms against the cold surface a good five times before a night guard came and glared at him through the little checkered glass window._

_“Hey! You knock that off!” the man barked._

_“I can-I can’t...” Richie blubbered. “Breathe! I can’t-”_

_“Get it together,” the guard said coldly. “You’ve got a long stay ahead of you.”_

_And if_ that _didn’t make him panic even more._

_Richie let out a choking sob and turned away from the door, leaning against it as his legs wobbled beneath him. Gravity threatened to send him crumpling down, so he slid down onto the floor and tucked his face into his knees._

_Just the way Eddie had taught him. Head between his knees, deep breaths, focus..._

_Richie heaved in breath after breath, but it sounded like he was choking on the staling air around him. And he was. He really was. And yet no one seemed to care._

_He was alone._

_His lungs and throat felt ice cold. His chest felt so tight, like a boa constrictor had taken a hold of his ribs and heart._

_His vision was going black, tunneling down..._

_“Hey. Hey, relax, alright? You_ _gotta_ _chill out, man.”_

_An unfamiliar voice appeared along with the feeling of hands being pressed down on his knees._

_“Breathe in with me, come on. In...and out...in...and out...”_

_Richie still felt on the brink of passing out, but he tried his best to mimic the unknown voice’s rhythmic breathing._

_It took a while, or maybe it didn’t. Fuck if he knew. But at some point his head cleared enough to process that the person in front of him was not a hallucination due to lack of oxygen to the brain._ _It was a boy with buzzed pale blonde hair. His teeth were decorated with clunky, silver braces and he wore the same heather gray sweatshirt and navy sweatpants Richie himself was wearing._

 _So_ _this was his roommate. And he was...helping him? Weird._

_“Feeling better?” the boy asked._

_Richie nodded, continuing to take deep, unsteady breaths so as not to fall into a panic again. If he did, he was sure the boy would just roll his eyes and shuffle back to bed, deeming him a crybaby and a lost cause._

_“Good. Thought you were going to pass out or something.”_

_Richie just stared at him, unsure of how to respond._

_Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier was actually_ unsure _of what to_ say _. There was a first time for everything, he supposed._

_Richie heard Henry Bowers’ sneering voice in his head:_

“What’s the matter, Tozier? Cat got your tongue? Or maybe you're worried I'm finally going to cut it out of your annoying, fucking mouth.”  


_“Shit, newbie. What the hell did you even do to get in here?” the boy said, settling back until his butt was on the cold, hard floor. “You look like you couldn’t hurt a fly.”_

_“You're just the pot calling the kettle black aren't ya, Metal Mouth?"_

_And there it was. His mouth had returned._

_The boy just stared at him for a few seconds, face stoic, and_ _Richie wondered if he was going to get punched in the face. But then the boy smiled, braces catching the light of the dim hallway fluorescents._

_“You're pretty funny," he said. "I’m Barthalomew, but my friends and family call me Bart.”_

_“Not sure which one of those names is worse," Richie said and_ _Bart laughed._ _“I’m Richard, but my friends and family call me Richie...and sometimes_ _Trashmouth_ _.”_

 _“_ _Trashmouth_ _,” Bart repeated. “I like it.”_

_"What about Richie?"_

_"Nah, that name is stupid as fuck. Just like Bart."_

_Richie laughed at that._

_Bart stuck out his hand. Richie stared at it for a couple seconds before accepting the handshake._

_"Nice meeting you, Trashmouth," Bart smiled._

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

The first thing Richie noticed when he woke up was that his tongue felt like sand paper. The next thing was that his mouth tasted foul.

He must have fallen asleep without brushing his teeth, which was odd considering he never did that. Or, at least, he never did it unless his schedule was disrupted by something completely out of his control.

Richie snapped his mouth shut and swallowed dryly.

He blinked his eyes open, preparing for the harsh fluorescence of a flashlight burning into his retinas. Only...he wasn’t in his cell. He wasn’t being glared at by an armed guard. He was...where was he?

He sat up abruptly and looked around, heart beating rapidly in his chest. He stumbled off the couch, blanket slipping off his legs and into a crumpled heap on the floor.

Then a sharp pain shot through his big toe all the way up his foot and ankle.

“ _Fuck, shit!_ ” he hissed, grabbing onto the couch armrest.

Nothing like a stubbed toe to start the day...and to let him know that this wasn’t some kind of vivid dream. This was real.

He was at Bill’s house.

Then, everything came rushing back.

Mike picking him up in Nevada. The two of them almost missing their flight.

Arriving at Bill’s.

_Food._

Richie’s stomach growled loudly.

He wondered what Bill had to eat. He wondered what he was _allowed_ to eat.

As Richie made his way to the kitchen, it became clear that he was the only one awake, which really wasn’t all that surprising considering the sun hadn’t even risen yet.

Richie hadn’t slept-in in years, and his internal alarm would probably follow him for months to come, if not forever.

Still, it felt better waking up on his own free will as opposed to a grumpy guard shining a flashlight into his cell, making sure it hit his face like some kind of harsh spotlight.

_“Up and at ‘em, inmate! Hurry up and get dressed. You got SW in ten minutes.”_

A guard would bark at him every morning. Tell him what he was going to be doing and when. As though Richie didn’t already know.

After all, Suicide Watch was his job the entire time he was in Nevada.

Richie began making a pot of coffee. He was relieved that _that_ hadn’t become as technically advanced as other things he’d encountered so far. Bill’s coffee machine was just a basic contraption. Not some password-protected, glass touch-screened thing. Thank goodness.

Richie opened the fridge and peered inside.

To anyone else it would look like Bill could stand to go grocery shopping, but to Richie it looked like a five-star restaurant.

There was bacon and eggs. He saw a carton of cream and a tub of butter. There were peppers, cheese, and mushrooms. And...was that Cajun hot sauce?

Oh, fuck yeah.

He was going to make the best damn omelet this town had ever seen.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Eddie woke up to the sound of rapid knocking on the wall right by his head. It was so loud and hard it felt as though whatever was on the other side was about to burst through the wall and right into his ear canal.

“What the f-” Eddie squinted against the sunlight shining through the window.

Eddie clicked the screen on his cell phone.

Eight o’clock.

He turned over and swiveled the old [ Looney Tunes alarm clock ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xRO5wAxPFRo)that sat on the bedside table. The stupid thing was supposed to wake him up an hour ago, but apparently at some point over the past few years Sylvester had stopped chasing and Tweety Bird had stopped talking. Now he was an hour behind on his day.

The pounding came again and Eddie jolted his head off the pillow. He pressed his palm against the wall to feel the drumming vibrations against his hand.

It was then that he realized what it was.

Damn woodpeckers.

Eddie gave a sigh of frustration and pounded his fist on the wall in the hopes of scaring it away. The drumming stopped, but he waited and listened for about ten seconds before coming to the conclusion that it had flown away.

He flopped his head back down onto the pillow and allowed himself a few more moments of rest before getting up. He needed to go on his morning run, shower, and finish cleaning the house. If he was going to be staying in his childhood home, he didn’t want to have to worry about ingesting dust bunnies the entire time.

Eddie squirted the white, baking soda toothpaste onto the bristles of his electric toothbrush. Then he began the same process he held every morning and every night.

He would press the circulating bristles to each tooth one-by-one, each and every tooth receiving ten seconds of brushing to ensure optimum dental health.

He didn't care if it seemed rather manic. He had yet to ever sustain a cavity, and he wasn't sure how many adults could say that.

He had just begun brushing the last molar on his lower jaw when the drumming started up again.

Eddie jumped, almost swallowing the frothed toothpaste in his mouth. He spit into the sink and hurried back to the bedroom.

He flung open the window and peaked his head out.

There it was. A pileated woodpecker, perched at an angle on the side of the house.

“Hey! Get outta here!” Eddie hissed, waving his arm around.

The bird just tilted its head, staring curiously at him with its beady eyes.

Eddie leaned further out the window, “Shoo!”

It tilted its head again before turning back toward the wall and hammering away. The damn thing was blatantly ignoring him!

Eddie resembled a very pissed off cat as he ducked back into the house. He looked around for something, anything to throw. He settled on his old Looney Tunes alarm clock because the damn thing obviously didn’t work anymore anyway.

Eddie leaned back out the window and chucked it.

The clock collided loudly with the side of the house about a foot away from the woodpecker before falling to the ground below.

 _Then_ it started going off.

The little cartoon figurines began spinning on the circular axis and Tweety Bird began obnoxiously blabbing: _“I thought I saw a puddy tat! I did! I did see a puddy tat!”_

So apparently it wasn’t broken. And he didn't remember it being so damn _annoying_.

 _“Motherfucker...”_ Eddie hissed.

The woodpecker flapped its wings a couple times, but stayed put. It began hammering its beak into the siding again.

Eddie hadn’t been trying to hit the thing. Of course not. He just wanted to scare it so it would stop hammering into his damn house. But it appeared that he was dealing with a fearless woodpecker. A fearless woodpecker that was still _hammering into his damn wall._

And on top of that, there was a maddening alarm clock in the grass below that would not stop fucking talking.

“Hey! Dickhead!” Eddie shouted over the alarm clock's noise.

The bird stopped and innocently tilted it head at him again before drumming once more.

“You little...” Eddie muttered angrily.

He ducked back into the house and looked around his room for something else he could throw. Then he remembered the tennis racquets in the garage. They were from when he was in high school. A couple of the strings had snapped on one while the other’s rubber handle had simply worn out its practicality.

Eddie had played a lot back then. There was just something about hitting a ball as hard as he could across the court that helped him release any pent-up anger.

Anger about his home life.

Anger over what had happened to Richie.

Anger about anything else that had pissed him off that week.

And now he was about to use it against a woodpecker that would not stop pissing him off.

In the back of his mind, he knew it didn’t make much sense...pounding on the house himself in order to get a bird to stop pounding on it instead. But it had gotten personal.

“Alright, asshole,” Eddie hissed as he crawled out the window again and sat on the window sill.

The alarm clock was still prattling on in the grass below: _“I thought I saw a puddy tat! I did see a puddy tat!”_

Eddie ignored it, keeping all his attention on the woodpecker that was still perched on the house, as though waiting to see what else he had planned. It twitched a bit and gave a little chirp.

As the woodpecker began drumming into the house again, Eddie reared back the racquet and began banging on the wall himself.

The woodpecker gave a wild flutter an inch to the left before continuing its onslaught on the siding.

“Hey!” Eddie shouted as he continued banging on the wall. “Fucker!”

Eddie continued to battle with the woodpecker even as joggers and dog-walkers slowed down to stare.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Richie was antsy. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He was used to waking up early, but he was also used to a strict schedule telling him what to do. Without it he felt...lost.

After drinking multiple cups of coffee and eating his amazing omelet, Richie went upstairs.

The first thing he noticed when he got to the top of the stairs was Mike’s unconscious, slumped form sitting on the floor outside Bill’s office. Richie crept around his friend’s legs splayed out across the hardwood so he could peer into the room. Bill was asleep at his desk, a journal entry open in front of him.

He wondered how far Bill had got in reading his journal entries. The thought brought him a sense of relief as well as anxiety. He had to keep reminding himself that he _wanted_ Bill to...well...to _know him_ again. He wanted all of the Losers to know him.

It would be a process to become reacquainted with the friends he loved, and he was more than willing to do it. Fuck, he wanted them all back _so bad._ He just didn't think he was capable of actually verbalizing the past twenty years of his life.

Richie headed toward the guest bedroom to retrieve his toothbrush and bar of soap.

He brushed his teeth before stripping and stepping into the tub. He turned the creaky shower knob and the pipes groaned as the water began rushing out. He gave a hard shiver as the frigid water met his skin.

Richie immediately began washing himself with the green bar of soap.

It actually took him by surprise when the water became hot a couple minutes later. He had just been working the bar of soap through his hair when the hot water began coming out of the shower head. It felt like it was penetrating all the way through to the muscle.

It was amazing.

Richie allowed his arms to fall down to his sides. He sighed heavily, embracing the feeling of the hot water thrumming against his tense muscles, as though intentionally coaxing him to relax.

Damn, it felt _so good_.

The water was so hot it bordered on painful, but he refused to turn the knob in the other direction.

Gradually, he allowed himself to relax.

Bathing time had been pretty much the same story at both the penitentiaries he'd lived in.

Each inmate was allowed ten minutes in the shower. The water would only start to get warm during the last thirty seconds. That was when he knew a guard was less than a minute away from barging in and kicking him out. Richie learned to wash himself fast and not surpass the ten minutes. The guards had no problem dragging someone out with suds still in their hair.

Not that Richie wanted to spend more than ten minutes in there anyway. The shower room was never a place anyone felt relaxed. If someone had a score to settle, there was a high chance it would be handled in the showers.

A sharp pain shot through the scar on his left shoulder. It went right past his left nipple all the way up to his collar bone.

An attempt at his life all because the guy thought Richie stole his pack of cigarettes.

Richie absolutely had _not_ taken the cigarettes, but that didn’t matter. A friend of a friend had claimed to see Richie go into the cell and come back out holding the box. And, of course, when Richie was confronted about it, he was unable to keep his big mouth contained.

A couple days later Richie was laying in the prison’s hospital ward getting his sliced skin stitched back together.

Richie opened his eyes, willing the memory away along with the phantom pain.

He started to turn the water off when his elbow hit a couple bottles of shampoo and body wash. He winced as they loudly clattered to the floor.

When he bent down to grab the bottles, he couldn't help but read the labels.

_Rosemary and Lemongrass Bodywash_

_Fortifying, Anti-Dandruff Shampoo & Conditioner + Clean, Citrus Scent!_

Richie looked down at the bar of soap in his hand. He had always made sure the soap he was provided lasted for at least two months. It would start looking awfully gross as time went on, but it was better than nothing.

He wasn't sure why he insisted on hanging onto it even now. He didn't need it anymore, but he supposed it was just a habit he had built up over all these years...conserving things that a lot of people took for granted.

He didn't need to do that anymore, though. He didn't need to worry about running out of toilet paper, or baking soda, or soap. He didn't need to safeguard such commodities anymore.

Because out here...out here they were just everyday, mundane items.

Richie dropped his bar of soap on the floor and grabbed one of the bottles instead.

He popped the cap and lathered the body wash _everywhere,_ absolutely relishing in the sweet, refreshing scent. It was a welcome change from the cheap, powdery smell he was used to, and massaging the citrusy hair wash into his scalp felt like the lap of luxury.

Richie could have honestly stayed in the shower for another hour, but he willed himself to turn off the water and get out.

The air in the small bathroom was thick with steam so he opened the small window and allowed it to billow out into the morning air.

Birds were chirping in the trees right outside.

It sounded so lovely and a little bit like paradise.

Richie grabbed a hand towel and rubbed it against his scalp to dry his hair before swiping it across the mirror.

He inspected his face, brushing his fingertips across the scratchy stubble that was threatening to grow into a beard.

He wondered where Bill kept his razor...

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Bill startled awake to the sound of bottles clattering to the floor in the bathroom.

He sat up, yawned, and stretched his aching back.

It wasn’t necessarily abnormal for Bill to fall asleep at his desk. About forty-five percent of the time, his workplace also served as his bed, and his back always protested the following morning.

He walked out into the hallway, making sure to shut the office door behind him. He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion at a yellow sticky note that clung to the wall right above a folded blanket.

_Went to work. Good story-telling, Big Bill. You should read aloud more often. - Mike_

Bill felt his stomach flip a bit in worry.

So Mike had been the one listening, not Richie.

He really should have double-checked before opening his stupid mouth and reading Richie’s personal life out loud.

Bill went down the hall toward the bathroom. Steam was creeping through the crack under the door.

Bill figured he could wait a bit to relieve the pressure in his bladder. It was the least he could do after blabbing Richie’s journaling to the entire damn world.

Of course, it was only Mike, and Mike would never spout secrets to just anyone. It was just the fact that Richie had _trusted_ him with this. And he blew it.

So Bill sat on the floor and waited.

And waited...

And waited...

And...

What the hell was Richie doing in there? Bill was five seconds away from doing a little dance like a toddler in a super market waiting for his mom to take him to the restroom.

The shower had stopped running a few minutes ago, yet Richie had yet to come out.

Okay, betrayed trust or not, Bill had to piss like a race horse.

He stood up and knocked on the door.

“You enjoying yourself in there, Rich?” Bill called.

“Not yet! But when I do I’ll be sure to picture your mom!” came Richie’s automatic response.

“Wh- ew, no! Not what I meant!” Bill said and Richie laughed. “Seriously though, I have to pee.”

“Damn. If only you had a toilet.”

“I do. _One_ toilet. Are you almost done in there?"

The bathroom door opened and the warm, moist air hit Bill in the face. He wanted to playfully snap, “Finally!” But instead his eyes bugged out of his head.

Richie's face was clean shaven, but that little detail went right out the window as Bill took notice of something else.

Richie was...Richie was completely naked. No towel, no boxers or briefs. Nothing.

And _everything_ was just...out and hanging free.

“Okay, I know I’m like the Jolly Green Giant and you’re a Keebler Elf, but can I borrow some clothes?” Richie asked nonchalantly as though he weren’t standing there completely _buck ass naked._

He clearly wasn’t doing this as a joke or to purposefully make Bill uncomfortable. No, he was just standing there like this was so completely normal.

If Bill wasn’t a tad mortified by the blush rising to his cheeks he would think the situation was rather comical.

Bill tore his eyes up and away. He shook his head a bit and closed his eyes.

“Y-yeah, uh, I uh...” he stammered.

Richie had his eyebrows raised and lips slightly pursed as he waited for Bill to sound out his response.

“Mike left a couple shirts here. And I have some drawstring athletic shorts. Or sweatpants! Whatever you’re...whichever you prefer,” Bill concluded awkwardly.

Richie smiled and began walking down the hall, patting Bill good-naturedly on the shoulder as he went as though they were teammates in a locker room, “Awesome possum. Thanks, Big Bill.”

Bill watched Richie walk down the hall and into his bedroom, humming some unknown tune as he went.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. That Looney Tunes alarm clock is definitely a real thing. And I can’t imagine ever wanting to wake up to that.
> 
>   
> TW for brief mention of vomiting  
> TW for panic attack  
> TW for mention of suicide(s)  
> TW for mention of violence
> 
> Feel free to talk to me:
> 
> [Tumblr](https://itjammy.tumblr.com)  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/softplaidpjs) 🔞


	4. Chapter 4

“Mhm, yeah. For sure. Awesome...” Bill trailed off from speaking on the phone as Richie entered the kitchen. “So you’re thinking an early morning flight, or...”

Richie gave a questioning look and Bill mouthed, _‘Stan.’_

Richie raised his eyebrows.

Bill was talking to Stan. Fuck, he missed Stan.

He wanted to have Bill relay a hello, but instead he went with, “Who the fuck calls at eight-thirty in the morning?”

Bill fixed him with a stare for a brief moment before a smile broke out on his face. “Stan says ‘shut the fuck up.’”

Richie faked a physical wound to the chest, “Oof. Ouch.”

Bill continued smiling as he turned all his attention back to his phone call.

Richie just idly walked around the kitchen as their conversation continued, trying to find things to distract himself.

He could hear Stan’s voice, but couldn’t make out what he was saying. Bill wasn’t really responding with much. He was just offering up an occasional “Uh huh,” “Yeah,” and “I know, Stan.”

Richie had the unsettling feeling the “conversation” was about him.

When Bill hung up he quizzically looked over Richie. “Going somewhere?”

Richie looked down at the shitty boat shoes he had been so graciously gifted upon his release. He casually leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms.

“Was just gonna go on a walk. Maybe go to the ‘ol stompin’ grounds.”

“The clubhouse?”

“My house-house.”

“Ah.”

“Or...what used to be my house.”

“It’s still your house, Rich.”

Richie scrunched his nose and made a high-pitched noise of disagreement in his throat.

“So how’s Staniel?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Fine. He set some time off from work to come stay for a bit. It’s a good thing he has a talent for hoarding vacation days.”

Richie looked surprised. “Stan is...coming here?”

“Well, yeah. Of course,” Bill replied, eyebrows furrowed. “Why wouldn’t he?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Richie replied sarcastically. “Maybe because he didn’t come to see me _once_ while I was in Nevada?”

Bill sighed and dropped his chin to his chest.

“Not that I’m mad about it or anything-” Richie continued.

“You sound mad," Bill interrupted.

“I’m not mad.”

“You’re allowed to be mad.”

“I’m not mad! I’m...I’m happy, actually. Happy that everyone was able to move on. I didn’t want everyone wallowing or whatever the fuck. It’s just..." Richie explained rather urgently. "A couple letters or something to ween me out of the club would’ve been nice...”

The last part came tumbling out of Richie’s mouth before he could stop it.

He really _was_ okay with Stan’s ability to move on. He was.

He just had to keep reminding himself of that.

Richie met Bill’s eyes and immediately wanted to look away. Or better yet, leave the room entirely. Maybe run out the front door while he was at it.

Because Bill was looking at him with sadness and...maybe even pity.

No. No, fuck that.

Richie felt uncomfortable under the gaze. He uncrossed his arms and gripped the counter. He shook his head, as though that alone could make such an expression leave Bill's face.

“No one ever moved on, Rich. Not really,” Bill said softly. “Stan was just...is still so m-mad at you.”

“Stan’s been mad at me since before I was born,” Richie blurted.

“You’re the same age,” Bill pointed out.

“And? My point still stands.”

Bill couldn’t help but smile at that. “He still loves you, Rich. We all do. Stan was just r-really, really mad when you got sent off to Nevada and your sentence extended. He...he didn’t understand, you know?”

Richie swallowed hard and looked away. His hands clenched the counter tighter.

Of course Stanley hadn’t understood. Because Richie had never spoke of what happened. At least not to anyone but Bill.

“All Stan knew was that you...acted up, and...your sentence was extended. All he saw was the heartbreak on Eddie’s face when Maggie had to relay the news. It all happened so suddenly and unexpected. We were all gathered together, putting the finishing touches on your...your Welcome Home Party, and..." Bill stopped and winced as though the memory brought him physical pain. "Eddie was actually in the process of painting a big banner that said, ‘Welcome Home, Asshole.”

Bill smiled a bit at the latter detail, but Richie’s face just crumpled. He felt like someone had just squashed his heart with a cinderblock.

Richie could picture Eddie’s hurt and confused face. He didn't want to picture it, but it was stapled in his mind, staring him down as though Eddie were actually physically there right in front of him.

It hurt.

Fuck, it hurt.

“I’m sorry. I sh-shouldn't have said that m-much,” Bill said, seeing the pained look on Richie’s face.

“No, it’s...I needed to...” Richie sighed, suddenly finding himself unable to form words. “I need to know these things.”

Bill could have said more.

He could’ve told Richie about how Beverly immediately dove into Ben’s shoulder to cry when Stanley got off the phone with Maggie and relayed the new, heartbreaking information to the rest of them.

He could've told Richie about how Mike and Ben’s faces fell into disbelief, hurt, and worry all at once.

He could've told Richie about how Eddie immediately crumpled up the banner and threw it in the trash.

Eddie tossed out the banner along with the words of confession he had longed to say for so long. The heartfelt words he had finally worked up the courage to admit out loud...and was planning to say to Richie when he finally came home.

He buried them away with the vow that he would never speak them again. Not about Richie.

Because he simply _"Can't love someone like that, Bill. I won't. If he doesn't care then neither do I."_

Bill could've told Richie about those words that Eddie tearfully spoke to Bill that night as they both sat up and drank their disappointment and sorrows away.

But instead, Bill kept quiet and waited for Richie to continue talking, because he looked like he was struggling to say more.

“I really just...” Richie continued lowly. “I wish I could...”

His words were lodging in his throat.

“I know. I know,” Bill said softly. “And you will. Everyone’ll just need some time, you know?”

Richie blinked the moisture from his eyes and looked off to the side.

“I really didn’t mean to...” his voice was getting thicker with each word that passed his lips. “I really didn’t mean to hurt anybody...”

Bill felt a pang of pain in his heart. Because Richie was standing there, a full-grown man fresh out of prison, but he sounded so small. So, so small.

“I know you didn’t, Rich,” Bill said, barely over a whisper.

Richie gave one loud sniff and wet his lips. He then coughed a bit and looked down at the floor.

He was trying so damn hard to keep his emotions at bay.

“I do think you need to tell them, though. What happened.”

Those words just about made Richie physically recoil back into the kitchen sink.

Bill’s gaze on him was heavy. It felt like an actual physical being weighing down on him.

“I can’t,” his response came out in more of a whisper.

“If you don’t, they may never-”

“I just can’t, Bill. Not me. I can’t be the one to...to do it,” Richie interrupted, voice hardening and gaze moving to Bill’s socked feet.

There was a moment of silence in which they both just stood there, thinking about what the other had said as well as all that was remaining unsaid.

Richie began speaking again, “That’s why I was so cool about...about Mike listening in on my journal entries last night.”

Bill had indeed been confused about that.

When he’d told Richie about Mike listening in on his reading, he had expected him to go upstairs to the office and grab each and every journal, then hide them away from the world so no one else’s eyes could ever land on them ever again.

Bill had placed blueberry muffins in the middle of the kitchen table as a form of consolation to soften the blow. Then he actually sat Richie down at the kitchen table like he was about to deliver horrible news.

Richie had just shrugged, reached for one of the muffins, and said, “Don’t sweat it, Big Bill.”

Richie bit his lower lip before continuing, “I want you to be the one who...tells everyone. That’s why I gave the journals to you in the first place. So _you_ could get to know me again and so you could help me help everyone else to...nevermind, forget it. I know it’s a lot to ask. You’re already letting me crash here and eat your food and shit..."

Bill felt like he suffered whiplash from the complete change in tone. Whereas at first Richie was speaking almost fearfully, now he was talking at a rapid pace as though trying to cover up all that he’d divulged.

He was talking so much and so fast that Bill could hardly get a word in.

“Rich stop-”

“I mean, I don’t know why I thought it was a good idea to just fling this on you. It was stupid. So _fucking_ stupid.”

“No, no, I-”

“It was such a stupid fucking idea. I don’t know why I thought you would be willing to...”

"Can you just-"

"I mean I just _came in here_ after _twenty fucking years_ and expected you to just..."

“Shut up for a... _Beep beep, Richie!”_

Richie’s mouth snapped shut.

They both stared at each other in heavy silence before Bill stammered out, “I-I-I haven’t been able to say that in a _long_ time.”

“I haven’t been able to _hear_ that in a long time,” Richie laughed out a little breathlessly.

Bill starting laughing as well, and soon enough they were both falling under the mirthful spell.

It all just felt so familiar, and comfortable, and right.

It felt like home.

There were still some missing pieces floating out and about in the world that Richie had yet to see or touch again, but he knew – or hoped – that gradually it would all start to feel whole again.

Their laughter had dwindled down to straggling chuckles.

“I didn’t mean to pressure you or anything, Rich. I know it’s hard...talking about things, and I'm here for you. I’m here to help you in any way you need. And if that means reading your journal entries like some kind of demented Story Time then that’s what I’ll do.”

Richie chewed on the inside of his cheek a bit before saying, “You don’t think it’s like, the coward’s way out? Like, I know it seems like I’m just a scared, pathetic sack of shit, but like-”

Bill walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“No. Not the coward’s way out at all, Rich,” he said earnestly. “You’ve already lived it. You deserve a break.”

Richie felt wetness forming behind his eyes again, but he rapidly blinked the tears away and gave a small nod.

“And for the record...” Bill said with a grin. “You’re not out of the Club. You never were. It just wouldn’t be the Loser’s Club without you, Trashmouth."

Richie snorted. "That's so fucking gay."

"Yep. You're welcome."

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Richie’s plan _had_ been to go to his childhood home. He was going to pop in and grab some of his dad’s old clothes so no one would have to spend any more money on him. This was assuming that the house key was still hiding in the same spot under the porch steps.

Instead, he found himself at a literal crossroads.

He stood at a four-way stop sign, staring down the street that he knew held his house, only to keep looking back the other way where he knew another place of importance sat waiting for him.

It was either empty, held a new family, or the woman that hated his guts still lived there.

No matter the answer, he made the decision to go there instead.

It was crazy, really. That he could still remember the ins and outs of Derry. There were some new developments here and there, but he still knew the town like the back of his hand. It’s like it had withheld the change that two decades brought.

It provided him with consolation as well as anxiety.

The consolation was brought on by means of familiarity. Being able to step into and walk the same exact streets of the world he was ripped out of and forced to leave behind.

Anxiety, because well, it was _Derry._

The Kaspbrak house looked about the same as Richie remembered it.

It had the same bricks, red siding, and white trim. The same tree that was overgrown like some kind of natural gateway onto the front porch was still there. Although, it appeared a bit more tamed back than he remembered.

Richie wondered if Sonia had finally hired a gardener or something.

One thing that was missing, however, that Richie distinctly remembered being there as a kid, was the brown wooden fence. He knew for a fact there had been one because he had many memories of climbing it in order to get to Eddie’s window.

Now it was open to reveal a well-groomed backyard.

Yeah. Definitely a gardener.

There’s no way Sonia had been willing to go out and actually _mow_ her yard _herself._ And she could only guilt the neighbors and Eddie’s friends into doing it for her for so long.

Richie remembered when she had convinced him to mow her yard by using Eddie as a bartering tool. She refused to let Eddie leave the house until Richie completed the task.

So, Richie had rolled out the mower and did as he was asked...or told. And it was the funniest fucking thing when Sonia shrieked over the bald patches of dirt that Richie had left behind.

Amidst her shouting and flipping out, Richie and Eddie had snuck away to their bikes and rode off down the street.

Eddie had known he would have to deal with his mother's mood and theatrics later, but he didn't care. Because in that moment he was simply happy to be _out._

Richie could hear the shouting and banging before he even came face-to-face with the house. At first he thought it was some construction guys hammering away and talking loudly with each other, but as he got closer, he could see a man hanging out the second story window, banging a tennis racquet against the house.

It was Eddie Kaspbrak’s bedroom window, to be exact.

Then, as Richie got even closer, he realized that it was Eddie fucking Kaspbrak himself. All five-foot-nine of him. And he was filled with a very familiar rage and fire.

Richie was struck with just _how long_ it had been since he'd laid eyes on Eddie Kaspbrak. They were in their early twenties then, before Richie had gotten sent away to Nevada.

After that, all Richie had to go off of to get his fill of Eddie were the memories.

Seeing him now, Richie’s first thought was how much he still loved him.

And his second thought was...how freaking amazing Eddie looked.

Even as he leaned out the window banging on the wall like a crazy person, Richie could see he was absolutely gorgeous.

The parts of his legs he could see as Eddie crouched out the window were nice and toned. His hair, always so neat and tidy as a kid and well into his twenties, was disheveled with sleep.

He looked even better than Richie remembered.

As he walked even closer to the display, he could hear a familiar Looney Tunes alarm going off. Growing up, it had been a staple in Eddie's room. Now, though, it was laying in the grass. Richie couldn’t believe the damn thing still worked.

He couldn’t help the smile that formed on his face as he gazed up at Eddie. Because, again, even as a fresh-out-of-bed, cranky, disheveled lunatic...he was still the most beautiful sight Richie had seen in the past two decades.

Richie wanted to step even closer, but he kept a fair distance as he realized...Bill never even told him Eddie was in town. Or maybe Eddie lived here? Either way, Eddie hadn’t bothered to come see him. So, he figured, maybe Eddie wasn’t ready. Maybe he’d never be.

Maybe Eddie just didn’t care to see him ever again.

That thought hurt worse than a punch to the gut, getting a tooth knocked out, a slice to the skin...

It hurt worse than...while he’d never been stabbed in the heart...he knew that the possibility of Eddie never wanting to see him again hurt worse than that ever could.

Richie wasn’t able to dwell on those thoughts for long as Eddie suddenly caught sight of him.

The sun was creeping through the trees directly into Eddie’s eyes, so he tried to shield them in order to bark at whatever stranger had decided to just stand there and stare at him in his own damn yard.

“What do you want?” Eddie snapped. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

There were a million things Richie wanted to say to Eddie. Or a million-and-one. Maybe even more.

But, naturally, he went with something stupid.

“Edpunzel, Edpunzel, let down your long hair!” he called.

Eddie’s eyes widened a comical amount. His mouth fell open and he began emitting strange noises from his throat like a fish out of water.

Finally, he managed a squeaky and breathless, “ _Richie_.”

And then he lost whatever balance he had and fell out the window. The Looney Tunes alarm clock spouted one last final “Puddy tat!” before Eddie landed on it, squashing it under his spine.

“Eddie!” Richie shouted, having started running forward the moment he saw Eddie teeter off the edge.

“ _Fuck_!” Eddie cried out as he rolled around in pain.

Up above, a woodpecker chirped and flew off the side of the house and into the distance.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Bill let out a loud sigh and shut his laptop a little too hard. He was frustrated. Beyond frustrated. He was borderline angry.

He hadn’t been able to write a single decent thing in _months._

Mike had been trying to help him out by allowing Bill to bounce ideas off of him and by bringing books from the library he thought could spark some inspiration. Yet, everything Bill came up with sounded and felt like complete and utter garbage.

Bill glanced over at Richie’s journals.

He had moved the chronological stacks over to a foot stool so he would have more room to work.

But work was simply not coming easy to him, and it hadn’t for a long time.

His first book was a hit. He was revered as a grand author that had come from seemingly out of nowhere. From then on, he had been expected to produce even more great literature.

Then came his second book, which had also sold extremely well. People were excited to read what the great Bill Denbrough had written this time. But after a few weeks it became known that everyone hated it because of how it ended.

It was bullshit.

Not everything ended in sunshine and rainbows. That’s just not how life worked. And if people couldn’t stomach that then fine. They didn’t have to read his work.

The thing was, however, that he could think that and even spout off about it to his literary agent...but the hard truth remained...

His readers were essentially the ones who paid his bills. His readers were the ones who bought his books. And if no one wanted to buy the books, if his readers stopped following what he did, well...he was done for. He could no longer continue doing what he loved.

Or, _used_ to love.

He wasn’t so sure anymore.

It had all just gotten so hard.

The Losers tried to convince him that he was just suffering a severe case of writer’s block. That one day, when he least expected it, inspiration would hit him. Then he would be able to put pen to paper again and create something worthwhile. He would publish something that would have his critics eating their words.

His friends weren’t wrong. Bill _had_ felt inspiration hit him.

He had felt that certain surge shoot through his brain that only a creator could experience.

He had felt it as he was reading Richie’s journal entries the night before.

Maybe it was just because it was emotional for him. After all, he _knew_ Richie. So, maybe he was too biased and that’s why it affected him in such a way. But there was something about the rawness of the writing...the fact that it was something true and real...and it was practically being written out _as it happened._

It made his heart thud in a way that no other form of reading had ever done before. It felt like he had cracked open something huge.

Suddenly, Bill felt the overpowering urge to continue reading the journals right then and there. He suddenly felt so _hungry_ for them.

But he resisted. He knew he had to wait. At least until tonight when Mike finished work and came over. Only then would he begin reading again.

As for the other Losers...he would just have to fill them in when the time came.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6iYvuEbLRhpAVLqPgozAD7?si=Cgj_q5VsRvKtDlXZo7krKg)  
> for this story
> 
> Feel free to talk to me:
> 
> [Tumblr](https://itjammy.tumblr.com)  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/softplaidpjs) 🔞


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